The Minutes at Whelans | Review

The Minutes at Whelan’s, Dublin, 16th May 2014

If there was ever a band that should have worried about the dreaded second album syndrome, it was The Minutes. Their blistering debut ‘Marcata’ was an immense explosion of blues rock, as were the stormy live performances that accompanied it, but that was then, this is now.

Newton tells us that perpetual motion is impossible, and rocking loud and hard isn’t enough if there isn’t any progression. AC/DC and Motörhead may have carved out careers of releasing the same album over and over again, but they’re the exceptions rather than the rule.

But when the Minutes herald their arrival onstage with the rather damp and lifelessly bland closing track of new album ‘Live Well, Change Often’, The Mystery of Om, it sets a worrying precedent. Maybe this whole “change often” mantra isn’t so good after all, maybe they should have just stuck to what they were good at.

They only really get into gear on the second song, the blazing fury of Secret History, which only confirms the suspicions; the new album just doesn’t rock as hard as the first one did. The new songs have all the same elements – wailing guitar solos, tons of distortion, thunderous drums and even more gargantuan bass – but none of it quite bursts forth with same percussive force as anything on ‘Marcata’.

New single Cherry Bomb gets an early outing, and despite heaps of stifling bass that could drown out a whole orchestra, it gets blown out of the water by the gloriously heavy swell of I.M.T.O.D. a couple of songs later.

The Minutes would be in trouble were it not for one thing. They may have left some of carefree rocking out behind, but they’ve compensated by coming forward in leaps and bounds in terms of songwriting ability. Outlaw is the best song the band have written to date by a significant margin: actually manages to achieve something other than a simple heaviness with the blues rock template. Instead, it dives headlong into actual emotional resonance, and melodies that hook the listener with their nuance rather than an onslaught of noisy riffs.

Not far behind it is Lo and Behold, which guitarist Mark Austen plays solo, something that would have been unimaginable a couple of years ago. Sure he’s still chugging wine and sweating and spitting like a demon, but there is a new depth to his guitarmanship that goes way beyond the cheeky swagger of his onstage persona. When he follows it up with a stripped back version of Guilt Quilt, it’s clear that The Minutes have turned a corner. It’s like the big and simplistic exterior of noisy stomp-rock has been peeled back like an onion to reveal layer after layer of unexpected nuance.

They’ve likewise improved in terms of on-stage synchronicity. If The Minutes were tight before, they are now as seamless as a supersonic jet fighter. Austen is quick to give props to his rhythm section in his own wonderfully profane way. “Are any of you in a band?” he asks a sold out Whelan’s crowd. “Well none of you cunts can play like these guys.” Which might have been a bit more of an insult it wasn’t true.

Drummer Shane Kinsella pummels his kit into oblivion like a reincarnated John Bonham, while Tom Cosgrave blasts out bass riffs that make you question why the hell this isn’t the lead instrument. You could drop this man into any number of mild-mannered, shitty indie bands and he’d drown out all of the guitars, which actually wouldn’t even be a problem since he can play entire songs on those four strings.

All of a sudden we’ve reached the end of the show, and any doubts have been demolished and lie in little shards on the beer-slick floor.

Austen shoots us his trademark piercing gaze, and asks that we, “Live well, change often and go fuck yourself,” before ending on the single heaviest of the new songs, Supernatural.

It’s the single closest number to their previous record. Even more so since it gets dragged out in a prolonged breakdown with the rhythm section chugging out a steady beat and Austen fucking about with a couple of chunky solos before stopping entirely, letting the other two power on while he throws back the remainder of his bottle of wine. When its empty he tosses it behind him, smashing a light.

Then they all fall silent. All of the sound, even the hurricane of reverb, dies. The Minutes take a breath, they let the anticipation build, and then wham, they all launch into one final lawless verse, all stormy rage and stomping movement and sweating brows.

The Minutes’ greatest strength may once have been that they had about as much subtly as a bull in a china shop. Now they have tapped into a whole new side of their music. The bull has learned to appreciate the finer things in life, to sit in quiet contemplation for a few minutes every now and then, before barging back into that china shop once more and smashing the fuck outta the place for old times’ sake.